Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

You lived on the streets from the little life you can remember, barely conscious at the ripe age of six years old. Your mother was always in a drunkard state, but you clung onto her for dear life. You depended on it, you did. Tiny grimey hands clutching onto her dress, eyes bearing into her face, wishing for any sort of love to emit from her. 

You always watched. You were quiet, but occasionally, you tried to garner attention from her. When things were right—if they ever were right—you’d vaguely remember her humming a lullaby that never quite left your memory. Her smooth hands caressing your velveteen hair, back when it wasn’t grimey and unkept. Back when you weren’t on the streets. 

This was your life, this was all Mama and you had known. Days spent searching for scraps in garbage bins, watching your mama disappear for nights at a time. She’d come back with scraps of food and more bottles.

The lights flickered whenever she came back, as if an angel had come down to bless the two of you, but changed its mind halfway. In the abandoned warehouse you and your Mama stayed in for the past while, you were tired. Your small body was littered with bruises and cuts from staying in the grimiest parts of Gotham City. But you persevered. Mama always tried her best for the two of you.

It happened on a Saturday night, the night’s mama always tried to get you special treats from the bakery that had leftovers in the trash. 

There were loud crashes, and the police were everywhere; you felt terrified. Unbeknownst to you, a robbery was happening at the bank beside the bakery. You shook like a leaf, scared for your life as you huddled in the alleyway between the bakery and the bank. A man as large as what you imagined a giant might look like, with blood splattered on his face, entered the alleyway. But that’s not what frightened you. He stood to the side, observing everything. Your mama was still far back, rummaging through the trash, most likely very drunk and oblivious to the situation unfolding before you. 

The police had entered the alleyway, and you were terrified. 

You felt the buzz of the radio before you heard it ‘The bats have the villain under control, but we got a call about a potential robber at this bakery.’ The man in uniform sighed and rubbed his face with his free hand before replying.

“Tell me why I got stuck with dealing with the fucking homeless scumin the area.” He groaned, and your body stiffened. He made eye contact with you before you could attempt to run, even if you could, you could never leave Mama behind. 

Not long after, he caught sight of your mom and the other shadow lurking in the dark. His eyes widened, and he sneered before trying to call for backup.

The lights flickered violently as you desperately put your hands up in defence, staring at the police officer, he was gonna arrest Mama. Hurt Mama.

I don't want him to hurt Mama. 

You screamed and wailed, rendering your voice raw. When suddenly the radio crackled and sparked, the line cut and the police officer fell back off balance. You sighed in relief at the faulty hardware and his loss of balance.

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦ ✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦ ✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦ ✦•┈๑⋅⋯

Daniel was a weapon, made to be at least. Today’s mission was to stage a bank robbery. The place wasn’t big in itself, but the doctor had been hired to create new weapons and test them out by the harbour; therefore, he needed a distraction in the city to throw off the scent of any unwanted heroes. 

When he’d arrived, he’d blown up quite a few people before listening to the police’s radios on his comms. They were coming, and so were the bats. He gruffed, and his partner decided to be the bait.

“I’m gonna hide out until things calm down, don’t let them find out what the doctor is doing.” He grunts to his weasly looking partner beside him and hands him a bag stuffed with cash. His partner grins and nods their head before scurrying off to deal with the situation. Daniel sneaks out of the back entrance of the bank before entering an alleyway beside it. He let a smug grin fall onto his face. The plan was going spectacularly. 

In the alleyway was a woman rifling through a huge trash bin, and a little kid quivering as they clung to the brick wall. He hid among the shadows of the alleyway when a police officer showed up. He watched as the kid began to cry, but he froze when he noticed something.

The kid's eyes began to vibrate as the light flickered. While you screamed and wailed at the officer to stop, he watched as faint electricity crackled through your vibrating eyes, seemingly sending the officer stumbling back. His radio crackled with that same electricity. It was almost unnoticeable, especially to the untrained eye; it resembled any malfunction of faulty technology.

But not to Daniel. He noticed. 

He watched as the officer pulled out a gun, and before he could get his finger on the trigger, he smashed him into the wall with a loud-

CRACK.

Blood dripped down the wall of the alleyway as the officer's limp body crumpled to the pavement. Your breath quickened as you covered your ears at the sudden loud noise. You felt dizzy and tired—running away with Mama was the only thing replaying in your head.

She’d finally stumbled out of the bin when you made eye contact with her, her eyes sparkled with a sense of familiarity, as she clung onto a brown paper bag with oil spots. 

“Mama!” you wailed and went to dash into her arms, snot running down your face as you mustered all the strength in your body to reach her. 

But you didn’t reach her, not before the man did. 

He grabbed her neck, the skin taught against his grip, then looked down at you. 

“Hello, little one.” You looked up at him as your mama dropped the bag of baked goods, her hands going limp. You hesitantly reach out a hand.

“W-what’re you doing with Mama?” you spoke with furrowed brows, you were too dizzy and too tired as you watched the giant man, his orange eyes looked down at you with curiosity. 

“I’m thinking you two can come home with us tonight. The doctor would love to meet you.” He offers a faux grin. You feel sick to your stomach, but all you could do was hesitantly nod at him. 

He threw your now passed out Mama on his shoulder before picking you up and holding you with one arm. He smelled like smoke and gunpowder. You inhaled the weird smell before relaxing in his arms.

Maybe he wanted to help you and Mama.

Chapter Text

Your body curled into a fetal position; everything felt too loud. Your eyelids slowly opened to reveal a gray room. It looked clinical and pristine, unlike any of the shadowed corners of Gotham you were used to. Somehow, it’s so loud in here. 

BEEP

BEEP

BEEP

You turn around to it—the machine, the source that’s grating your ears. It looks mechanical. Consistently, it beeps, a rhythm that doesn’t feel musical at all. Then the beeps begin to increase in speed, and your heart is humming against your sternum. You don’t understand why the silence in this room feels so loud; it makes you dizzy before the familiar stinging hits your sinuses. Hot tears well up in your eyes before they spill onto your cheeks, and you try to breathe, but it feels useless. Your breath feels snagged on a rib. 

Before you know it, doctors file into the room, the erratic spike in your heart rate having alerted them to check in on you. You’re so clueless, and the lights are starting to flicker and—

“I just want my Mama!” You yowl, your voice rasped in pain.

They freeze what they’re doing before hesitantly going back to injecting something through the IV line nestled in your right arm. You feel the cool liquid rush into you, and suddenly you feel calm. The tremors in your chest stop, and you breathe slowly. You feel immobile, but maybe that’s just exhaustion.

They proceed to shove the curtain beside you open, and that’s when you see her. Mama is attached to a bunch of machines and has an oxygen mask on. 

But she’s alive.

Your little heart flutters at that. You hear footsteps approaching and watch as the giant man from before walks in. He has a hard look on his face as he approaches your bedridden Mama. 

“Doctor says she has nothing of value inside her; she’s projected to become a nuisance in the future.” He speaks flatly into the air, and the other doctors solemnly nod their heads. You don’t quite understand what’s happening, you’re just so relieved Mama is here.

Your tiny hand reaches out weakly towards her, but your bed isn’t close enough. You watch her in awe; she looks so pretty, her hair is messy, but she looks clean. 

You hadn’t seen her clean in a long time.

The man caresses her head, just like she used to do when you were even tinier. You watch with content, orbs trailing his every movement.

His hand slides down to her mandible, caressing it gently. Then he grips her throat. It’s light at first, tender, but you feel a growing sense of urgency as his hands tighten, cutting off her airways. You feel a panic thrum in your chest, but whatever the doctors put in your IV seems to have you half lulled and unable to move with any real meaning.

Your tiny hand trembles as it desperately reaches out for her, just one more time. Your eyelids droop, but just before you fall victim to the drugs, you hear the shriek of the machine.

A flatline.

It’s the worst sound you think you’ve ever heard.

Sun Dokhwa lingered in his study; he tended to keep to himself when there was no work to be done. Instead, he theorized about the many things he could do. Sheets lined with unknown experiments and ripped pages from formulas that just didn’t work. His hand dragged across his face, and he felt the prickle of his stubble and sighed. Adjusting his square glasses, he pushed back from the table, rising to his feet.

Last week, he had sent for Daniel to get a job done for him; he succeeded, as he always did. His lack of presence helped in obscuring them from the vigilantes who so desperately tried to save Gotham. But he had picked up a special gift on his errand, and Dokhwa was hesitant at first, but when he saw them, I mean, really saw them. He almost foamed at the mouth from the possibilities.

This child was extraordinary— or rather, the possibility of what they could be. He felt an unholy sort of glee unfurl in his chest.

Daniel wasn’t exactly right in assuming it was electricity; it was something far more interesting than that. He wanted, no, needed to dissect it.

A few tests and blood samples confirmed what he already suspected. They had some mutation in their DNA, perhaps inherited. After some tests on the mother, he learned the anomaly in the child had nothing to do with her. Most likely passed down through their father, though who that was became irrelevant. If he were to truly uncover the scope of their capabilities— to mould this child into what he wanted, he had to get rid of the mother.

And so he sent Daniel to dispose of her. It had been after a week of testing, he’d given the go-ahead to exterminate her. He was slightly impatient; he felt a sort of chill crawl up his spine.

 Still, he would wait.

Give the child two days to be isolated before making contact.

He’d done all the prep. How he would mould them, how he would approach like a gentle predator, offering shelter beneath his wing. Maybe, in time, he’d find a sense of family with them, though that wasn’t the goal. What mattered most was this:

He’d haunt them forever. 

You cried for a full day when you woke up from your sedation. Tears stained the hospital gown they’d dressed you in—you were terrified. Confusedly screaming in your room, the buzz of the machines like a bee that wouldn’t leave your head. Anytime you’d get out of control, they’d pump the IV with more chemicals, and you were lulled back into nightmares of your Mama dying in front of you.

On what you thought might be the third day of being awake, the air shifted. The clean scent of alcohol laced the room. You heard footsteps once more and cowered in your bedsheets. Digits gripped the blanket tightly, knuckles white from the strain. 

A rap at the door stilled your shaking. Your beady orbs peeked out from the covers, and you were met with the sight of another doctor.

Although this one looked… different.

He stood hesitantly at the door, almost afraid to come in. You raked your eyes over his form, and he looked non-lethal. His hair was brown and dishevelled in a nice sort of way, like your Mama’s used to be. He looked older, maybe in his 30s or 40s—you could never really tell. He adjusted his glasses, and you took note of his stubble; you scrunched your nose at the thought of how scratchy it probably felt. 

He speaks before you can, finally breaking the silence. You’re silently grateful for that.

“Hi there, little one.” His voice is fatherly but also boyish. You stare back at him.

Are they gonna kill me next?

You shudder at the thought of that. His eyebrows seem to furrow as he lets himself into your room. He approaches your bed with the caution of a rabbit. You let him, just for now. 

“I’m not here to hurt you, I hope you know that.” Something in his voice sounds real—genuine, even not like the other doctors' monotonous voices when they read your vitals. “I’m not like that scary man who hurt your mother.” He speaks calculatedly. Gauging your reactions, but all you can do is shiver at the thought of what that man did. 

“You’re not here… to hurt me?” Your voice is small, and he nearly coos at how cute you look. He clears his throat before nodding in response.

“I have something to tell you, do you know that you’re different from others?” He starts, and your beady eyes simply blink at him. He takes it as a sign to continue. “You little one, have special abilities.” You furrow your brows at him and go to speak, your voice coming out smaller than you hoped.

“H-how?” You ask softly. He gives you a warm smile before reaching to take your hand in his. His palms are warm. 

“Have you ever noticed the lights flicker sometimes when you’re upset? Or feel a certain buzz in your head?” he queries gently. “You actually can disrupt radio signals, too, little one. It is something we call low-level aura disruption.” You suddenly are thrown back to the day you were taken, and you can’t believe it.

“Y-you mean I did all that?” You whisper. He nods his head before planting more new information into your little head.

“A lot of people don't like people like you; they think you shouldn’t exist in this city.” His voice is fractured as he speaks. A pit forms in your stomach.

“But not me, no, I believe we can make you into something even better.” His voice is excited, almost cloying. But this idea lights a tiny match in the pit of your stomach, and you look at him expectantly.

“W-what’s your name, mister doctor, I wann’ be better,” You mumble before tightening your grip on his hand.

“I’m Doctor Sun, little one.” He beams at you, pulling you into an embrace from the nape of your neck. You let it happen; you haven’t felt something this soft in a long time. 

Dr. Sun was a nice name.

5 years later

Locked in that same room again, you learned not to cry as much. The machines shook your nervous system to its core, pulsating through the padded walls. There was a deafening ringing in your ear from the overload of information; you’d been locked in isolation for weeks this time, your eyes sunken from the stress. Your entire body felt like an exposed nerve, frayed raw.

Then came a voice over the speaker, somehow, you heard it— distinct, threaded through all the noises screeching in your head. 

“You can come out now. ” Suddenly, doctors file into the room, removing the egregious number of wires attached to your body. They rip out the IV faster than they should, and you feel bile aching to rush up your throat. You cradle your arms, holding yourself tightly, averting their touch. 

You were ushered out of the room and into the cold hallways, which felt haunting, reminding you of everything that had ever happened in here. There was an obscene amount of silence when you left the room. Your body swayed like the fall leaves headed towards the ground, before you could crumple to the floor, an arm grabbed you. You stumbled into whoever's arms had held you, only in necessity. You were nearly passed out.

They sat you in another room, only one wire embedded into the nape of your neck. In front of you sits a glass, clear as the window pane, looking into your room. Their watching, expectant. 

“You know what to do.” A monotone voice came through the speakers

For the past month, they’d been attempting to get you to shatter glass; you’ve already passed the tests for disabling radios, at least—most of the time. You don’t understand why they believed you could shatter glass; they said you’re powers were low-level, but you assumed all the frying of your nerves was to alter your body's limits. You picked at your cuticles until they bled, and the room fell into a manufactured silence. They always played dirty. You shrank in your chair, limbs folding in on themselves. Even breathing made you feel like you took up too much space. 

Despite your position, you knew you had to comply; you didn’t wanna think about what they would do if you didn’t. Swallowing the lump in your throat, you concentrate on the glass, feeling the aura in the space surrounding it. The lights flicker more violently than they used to, and you feel a hum in the base of your skull. But you focus harder. It’s not working, though. Your body is straining, but all you can manage is the glass teetering on the table, your irises shift upwards to give the crew a solemn look of discouragement when you see blonde hair—

KSSSSHKK

The glass SHATTERS across the entire room.

Dread unfurls in your stomach. 

Why was he here? 

Why was he here? 

He wasn’t supposed to be in today.

No, no, no—

You watch as he gives you a grin; his presence is like poison in the air. The surrounding doctors stare at him in dismay. They had been trying to get you to shatter the glass without emotional disruption. For some godforsaken reason, you always freaked out around this doctor. One of them rubbed their temples with their hand while letting out an exasperated sigh. And so they logged the outbursts, but missed the cause. 

In a small sense of remorse, one of the doctors called in a favour. Someone you hadn’t seen in a while.

Before you know it, someone’s rushing into the room, and you’re sobbing, but you look up and there you see your saviour.

“Dr. Sun!” You rasp through tears. He gently picks you up and cradles you against his sternum, as you listen to the thrum of his heartbeat. 

“You did well today, little one.” His voice ghosts the shell of your ear. Your frame goes limp as you pass out from the sheer stress.

4 years later 

Bruce was exhausted, more so than usual, for once in his life, he wished he could take a real break. He’d tried desperately to find anything about it. He had Tim pull up anything he could find, but he always came up empty-handed. He felt his blood boil. His eyebrows knitted together on his face. Mandible tightening with stress. The dreary feeling was coming back—the ache in his stomach.

“Master Bruce,” Alfred’s voice comes steady, “I think it’s high time you met with your bed, it’s been days.” His voice is gentle, like a silent nudge towards better health. Watching the man he’d helped raise come undone at the seams.

“Alfred… what am I missing here?” Bruce’s voice comes out gruff and tired. He runs his hand through his hair, disheveling it more than usual.

When Bruce was out on patrol almost a year ago, he tailed a man who wasn’t anything special. At least that’s what he’d thought. The man then managed to get in a punch to his right temple. He had grumbled something that he almost didn’t catch. Something that felt off.

“All his time is focused on Project Shattercore; he couldn’t even give me a boost.” The man then roundhouse kicked him, before jumping off the roof of the building, but Bruce, in a moment of stun, wasn’t fast enough to catch him. When he searched the pavement below, there was no sign of a body; the man had somehow evaded him.

Bruce clung to that piece of information like a vice; it was like a ghost; he could find no trace of it.

A year later, and where had he gotten? Nearly nowhere. Dick had tried to convince him otherwise.

“Maybe you heard it wrong, Bruce. Maybe it was nothing.”

But Bruce was unrelenting; he couldn’t shake the marrow-deep feeling that this wasn’t a misheard whisper.

It felt like a weapon. And by the sounds of it, it might’ve been human. It sounded dangerous, like a needle hidden in something soft. Like it was going to ruin Gotham.

After a pause, Bruce’s breath stilled, and he silently got up, pacing towards the exit. He needed to rest if he wanted to ever figure this out. Alfred let out a breath he had been holding and ushered Bruce upstairs.

It was two nights later that he got the call from Tim.

“Bruce… I think I found something.”

Chapter Text

It was your fifteenth birthday. At least if you remember correctly. Mind muddled after all the years of nervous system damage. You were almost sure your memory was intact. You still flinched at the ghost of a touch. But the memories of how things only worsened made you tremble. Your body curls inwards like a caterpillar trying to make a cocoon out of itself. Was today supposed to be special? Or was it supposed to sound like shrill shrieks in the rooms just on the other side of the wall? You weren’t sure, and you didn’t want to know. You felt your pulse point, relaxed as it could be—digits settled on the cool skin. You twitched at every recurring screech with the sensitivity of a landmine.   You don’t remember this place looking as empty as it did, clinical lights beating down in the room, and the hallways— they didn’t seem to whisper secrets that only the adults seemed to understand.  

You chewed on your nail, heart pacing as you wondered why. Maybe Dr. Sun would know; he seemed omniscient here, a god among men. So you uncurled yourself and padded down to the hallway, the bulbs faded and constant as always. There were two notable individuals today—Dr. Sun and— 

Him . 

His name sounded like a curse to you, like something that could unspool your entire existence in a short breath. You shuddered at the mere notion of seeing him, but you wanted an answer; there was only one direction to go. You tugged the soft fabric of your sleeves down your cold limbs, and you silently thanked the nurse who had provided you with a warm hoodie. As you navigated the maze that was the hallways, you reached the office. You let out a breath before your hand reached out, stilling inches away from the door. You wanted to knock, you really did, but you felt a sick feeling take over instead. Unsettling your stomach in turn.  

Your other hand instinctively cradles the nape of your neck in a sort of comfort. The scab that’s forming a reminder—a sharp, quiet reminder of what you are. 

“Hi there, bunny .” 

You hear it before you see it. That velveteen voice—sickly sweet and cloying. The nickname alone lodges into your skull like a piece of old gum. A familiar reminder of what you are.  

It’s heavy. Inevitable. 

“Still so twitchy when I come close…” He murmurs, and you don’t respond; you can’t.  

Your hands are where he can see them. Clockwork, routine. 

So you freeze, still like a tree in an unwavering storm. 

You don’t want to think about how he looks now. His blonde hair was pulled back, roots darkened with his natural colour. Those unnerving hazel eyes, the kind that used to ignite pure desperation in your childhood. He looks the same age as Dr. Sun. 

You never liked that. 

So when his digits curl onto yours, you don’t flinch, at least not much. He leads you into another darkened hallway, just close enough to feel familiar. You feel numb, the kind of feeling that gnaws at your insides until even your organs forget how to function. 

He digs his head into your shoulder, taking a breath, your eyebrows knit together as you stiffen. Turning your head to the left, up and away, you screw your eyes shut. His hands shift from friendly to unfriendly, faster than you can blink. He hovers near your auricle, whispering until you nearly feel your legs buckle. 

You feel yourself breaking all over again. 

His digits grip your chin and force you to meet his eyes, and you falter; you can’t help it. Your heart thumps against your sternum, his other hand pressed to your waist. The anxiety claws its way out of the back of your throat as he stares at you while miasma fills the air around you.  

This is what you shaped to be: a receptacle of sorrow. To swallow all the hurt, the terror, so the others can be proud.  

Then it happens, you crack—your eyes tremble in alarm, a blaring signal of your distress. A familiar reminder of what you are.  

“Oh, bunny , the look on your face…” His words ooze out of his mouth like rot, every word a spreading infection. He watches the slight vibration of your irises and leans in, closing the distance, as your heart sinks to your stomach. 

All you can think is that at least he didn’t start roughly this time. 

As his hands grope and prod and he pulls his lips back from yours, you feel a flicker of relief, but dread drowns your inside at the familiar pattern of what comes next. Then— 

Footsteps, inching closer. 

You silently pray it’s who you hope it is. Because he pulls away, leaving a ghost of his presence over you. As well as the trauma he just inflicted on you.  

You stiffen, because if you let anyone see what happened here, you don’t know what would follow, and he rewards your silence with a sick promise of being gentler the next time, and that’s all the control you’re permitted. 

He leans against the wall, casual, a lopsided grin etches itself onto his face. How quickly he can change from a wolf to something almost human.  

Almost. 

Finally, the person comes into your line of sight, and you nearly collapse from the relief.  

Dr. Sun. 

He offers you a small smile. Making eye contact with him , giving a curt nod. You shuffle yourself over to Dr. Sun’s side, and your body relaxes a bit. Limbs heavy with the weight of what you just experienced, and have held for the past ten years.  

You and the Doctor leave silently, heading into his office. A retreat that feels welcome in your mind. Your irises land on the ground as you trudge onwards, waiting to be told to enter his office, or whatever room he permitted you in today. 

His hand on your back nearly makes you flinch. 

Nearly. 

But you don’t—because his touch , the quiet claim of his, holds a semblance of safety. A stark contrast to all the hands that have ever laid themselves onto you. 

You dissociate until you're in safety from it all, the touches, the silence, the voices, everything that plagues your mind. The dizzying buzz of the hallways and your brain, the constant twitch in your fingers, the sallow skin of your body.  

You feel like the embodiment of a disease.  

“Now, little one, I know you’re curious why it’s so empty in here, I don’t want you to worry. You are the strongest thing I’ve ever laid my eyes upon. Something special—something they couldn't understand.” His voice is a murmur, something almost soft. 

Strength? No, there wasn’t any of that left.  

But you can’t help but listen to him anyway, his fingers clasped around your digits—almost comforting, less clinical than others, but still far distant. 

His eyes flicker down to your hand, placed on your pulse point as if to steady yourself. He lets out a breath, and his brows furrow in the way you’ve seen time and time again.  

He looks… frustrated. 

You shakily place your fingers on his shoulders, as if to ground him to where you are, even if he’s not as far gone as you are. 

He isn’t sure what to say next, and you remain completely still, your trembling hand still tethered to him. You want to speak, to query, to discuss what this means, what’s going to happen to you. And finally— 

What’s your purpose? 

But the words fester in your esophagus, throat tightening at the fear of what his answer might reveal itself to be. 

His warmed irises locked onto you. 

“Remember,” He murmurs, “all of this was for something; this pain, you’ve borne it so well. Look at you—extraordinary.” His digits caress your cheek reverently, and you so wish to lean into them, to surrender, to rest. 

Because if Dr. Sun says so,  

Maybe it’s true. 

After a few words from Dr. Sun, he sends you back to your room, and you can’t help but feel the weight of the world fracturing your spine. Like it’s engulfing your entire form.  

That’s what it feels like today. You don’t know if you've ever remembered your birthday feeling any other way.  

You remember being taught that the world was against progress. That humans had very well squandered their many chances of altering their fate.  

But buried beneath those were also memories of laughing at a storybook that spoke of magic and light, like there was some sliver of goodness left here. Like you could be part of it. But it felt so far away, never close enough to touch, let alone dream about. 

You lay on your bed, sheets ruffled beneath your form. You feel the speakers crackle, the static vibrating the air. Then they are silent again, which catches your attention. Your nerves feel off, something or someone is coming—but who? This place felt disconcertingly empty. 

You hear a gunshot, and you feel every hair on your body sharpen like a porcupine. Like a feral cat, you jump in fear, your body dropping to the floor with fluid precision. Your heart hums against your ribcage, each beat reverberating through your auricles. You crawl across the cold floor to hear the commotion going on outside. You press your ear flush to the door, swallowing dryly. You hear crashing and the sounds of things breaking; it sounds like a warzone.  

Is there a raid happening? The police—you hope it’s not them.  

Is someone here for you ? 

You shake the sickening thought outside your head, scoffing at the fact that you could think so selfishly. 

You’re highly doubtful of that. 

Your stomach sinks, the pit beginning to form.  

Maybe this is it. Maybe you weren’t anything special at all.  

Dr. Sun was wrong . 

Picking at your cuticles, you begin to breathe with a tremor, your heartbeat picking up its frantic pace again. It feels like your auricles are ringing again—it hurts, the screeching familiar pain wrecking your body from the inside out.  

Your nails find their way into your scalp, digging into it as the pressure builds. It feels like you’re going to explode.  

A blood-curdling scream tears from your throat, a haunting echo reverberating through the building. You yank at your hair, your spit and snot running down your face. Your head tilts back at the familiar screeching of tinnitus in your ears, and everything is spinning in a nauseating whirl. 

You have never wanted to die more than right now. 

Bruce is halfway through knocking out a security guard when he senses something thrumming in the air. This godforsaken building had more problems than he had hoped for. 

Suddenly, the lights flicker, and he taps his comms to try and reach Tim. 

“Tim, something's off here.” 

“Br–” Tim's voice fractures into static, and the line suddenly cuts off entirely. Bruce’s eyes narrow as the lights shut off. 

Did they shut down the electricity to cover their tracks? Or was it an EMP? 

He doesn't have nearly enough time to deliberate. A screech rips into the silence. It's rough, pained. Hostages? Civilians? He had to be prepared for anything here, steeling himself. He shoves an elbow into the beaten security guard's ribs to keep him down. There would be no slip-ups tonight. A year of searching has led him here; he finally has intel on this place.  

The Doctor. 

His project. 

Enough to set Tim’s radar off—now here he was, stepping into a sepulchral building with not much to go on. He moves rapidly in the direction of the scream, his cape flowing behind him, casting a dark shadow of his presence on the sterile floors. He slips into what looks like an office. The scream is closer now, humming like static, but something catches his eye—a file long forgotten on a metal table, something almost insignificant. This place reeks of a hasty evacuation. He can almost hear the hurried steps echoing in the halls like a ghost. 

He snatches the file with his gloved hands swiftly, making haste to open it. He sees a name and his eyebrows furrow, tension suddenly pulsating sharply in his head. A name was scrawled at the top of the medical file. Why does that name look familiar? 

(Y/N) Dalia. 

Why on heaven’s earth does it haunt his memory in ways he cannot comprehend? 

He feels an odd sense of panic at the scream. Suddenly, it pounds into his head, a raw ache scratching his throat.  

Who is screaming? He needs to help them— right now. 

There’s no more time to waste. 

He tucks the file somewhere to read later and makes his way to another room, urgency clawing at his chest. What he finds makes his heart sink. 

A teenager sits on the ground, screaming, sobbing; they look like they’ve not slept in days, their body hunched over on the ground, trembling in fear. He realizes this must be a hostage, and he approaches them like a wounded creature. 

Something inside him knows that this is (Y/N) Dalia. 

He needs to help you now. 

Your eyes look up at him, pupils blown and veins mapped across the whites. Tear streaks stain your cheeks, your form shaking with raw panic. He steels himself once more, but this isn’t the time to be too emotional; he has to get you out of here and figure out where the Doctor and his project are—quickly.  

Communications are still fried; he has to get you to Gordon—right now. 

Yet he finds himself drawn to you, echoes of something lost in his memory, stuck in the back of his skull like gum. So he offers you a hand, digits uncurled, palm raised, like an unspoken prayer. 

You look up at him and shake fervently, before your fingers curl onto his hand, grip iron tight—like you’re terrified he might vanish into thin air. 

He exhales a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. 

You want to believe he's here to save you—the Batman, whispers from nurses, and a small tale from Dr. Sun, you'd heard of him all right. A caped vigilante who fought crime and evil in the gloom that was Gotham City. 

You wonder why he never saved you. Why did he never save Mama? 

But you hold onto him, something about him feels right, familiar. You want to release all the tension coiled in your body and relax, just this once. You feel the slight buzz of his nervous system through his suit, trying to memorize it as you feel yourself lose consciousness in his arms. 

You wake to the comfort of a blanket, warmer than you think you deserve. Eyelids peeling up, the crust from tears and exhaustion making them itch as you blink away the fog. As your pupils dilate, focusing on the scene before you, you see the compound that you’ve spent your entire life in ahead of you in its gloom, and you’re perched inside what you think is an ambulance. Peering around you lock eyes with an older gentleman, he has a tan coat on, and his face is kind, but worn with fatigue. Bags decorate his under-eyes like sombre ornaments. He itches at his mustache before making eye contact with you, and you freeze under his gaze like a deer in headlights. 

He softens, making his way over to you, a slow pace. 

“Hi Kiddo, (Y/N), right? I’m Jim Gordon. I work for the GCPD. You’re safe now, I promise.” His voice comes out kind, but you feel an anxiety swirl around in your stomach at the mention of the police.  

You awkwardly curl into yourself and look up at him through your eyelashes, trying to protect what little autonomy you have left. 

“Hi…” Is all you manage to get out, your throat closing up in fear. 

“I know you must be really scared and confused right now, “he says gently, voice gruff but warm. “But we have someone who will take you in, he’s a good man, his name is Bruce Wayne,” trying to offer a sense of comfort amidst the stench of desperation in the air. 

The name sounds familiar—achingly so, the kind of familiar that reminds you of your Mama. The thought of it makes you wanna cry again. Tears pricking the corners of your eyes. You shake the thought out of your head fervently.  

As sheltered as your life was, you were vaguely familiar with the billionaire—a few news articles you’d snuck into your room in the dead of night, providing a quick snapshot of the man. 

While lost in thought, you hear the tires of a car trail against the gravelly road, approaching where the ambulance is parked. You watch as a sleek black SUV parks. It looks clean, professional and nothing like what you are used to. The doors click open as a man elegantly exits before making his way over to you. 

He’s dressed in a crisp, black suit, almost like a butler, his hair is white, soft wrinkles envelop a face so warm it makes your chest tighten up. Your digits pick at your cuticles as you look up at him. He gives you a curt bow before introducing himself. 

“My name is Alfred Pennyworth, I work for Master Bruce,” he starts, his voice coloured with a gentle British accent. His tone shifts to something more sympathetic. “My apologies, Master Bruce wasn’t able to meet you here himself; he’s been caught up with some work.” You don’t miss the slight grimace that flickers on his face, but it’s quick, fleeting, and you don’t have the energy to read into it. 

The ride to the mansion is silent, but not for you; you hear the buzzing in your ears, and it eats away at your sanity little by little. Maybe Alfred catches onto it, or senses your discomfort, because he begins to speak.  

“I’ve prepared a small room for you to stay in; however, I’m still working on clearing out the main room. My apologies for the delay, I had little notice.” He hums, a slight smile graces his features, and you wish you could smile back at him. 

“No need to apologize, I’m grateful to even be here.” Your voice is small, scared to appear too loud, to take up more space than you already do. You wet your lips with your tongue as you peer outside the window of the car. It’s gloomy, as Gotham is most days, but you swear you see a sliver of sun peek through the trees lining the grounds.  

Your eyes widen like saucers at the sight ahead. The mansion is massive—no, huge doesn’t even begin to describe it. It was magnificent, gothic architecture towering over, it was haunting but breathtaking. 

Your jaw slackens ever so slightly. There was no way this was your new home. 

You swallow the lump in your throat, despite things having seemed to look up, you feel your stomach coil in on itself.  

You think of Dr. Sun, of his words. 

“ You are something they could never understand.” 

The memory binds itself to the sick feeling in your stomach. As the car parks in front of the monumental building ahead, there’s a tremor in your hands that doesn’t seem to stop. 

When you step out of the car, you inhale deeply, but the air is thick in your lungs. 

Alfred takes your hand into his, careful and gentle. You startle at first, but your digits clasp onto his gently in turn as you let him lead you into the looming building, a silent comfort hanging in between you two, cutting through the miasmic air of the mansion.  

You weave through the vast and empty hallways of the mansion, and he leads you into what looks like a study. He lets go of your hand and steps forward in front of you. You go to peek around quietly, and that’s when you see him. 

Bruce Wayne. 

His gaze is hardened onto something strewn on his desk, but he feels your eyes on him. he quickly looks up, meeting your gaze head-on. Your resolve shatters, and you duck behind Alfred quickly. 

“Master Bruce, here is Young Master (Y/N) Dalia.” Alfred steps away, the only thing separating you from Bruce’s tenebrous presence. 

“Hi, it’s nice to meet you.”He says, voice low and rough around the edges. He studies your face for a long pause before offering a gentle smile. It looks practiced, something like a crack in his otherwise stone-like facade. 

“It’s good to meet you as well, Mr. Wayne.” You manage to get out, fingers playing with the hem of your sweater.  

“There’s no need to be so formal, after all… he is adopting you,” Alfred interjects matter-of-factly, eyes locked onto Bruce. 

Bruce winces at the sound of the sentence. To have it said so plainly feels wrong; things were never said outright, not in this place at least. 

Your heart thuds against your ribcage.  

Why would someone like him do this? 

What does he know about you? 

You feel younger than you are, body curled in on itself like a cat, all of you on display before this billionaire. Claiming to take you in—things like this didn’t just happen. 

But you wondered, would it be like when you were with Mama? 

Would someone ever look at you the way she did?

Chapter Text

Your hands were clasped politely in front of you, as Alfred stood a few feet away, flattening your sheets. You felt a pang of guilt at the sight of it. You’d officially gotten your room, not just the ghost of one that was never intended for permanent use. Alfred promised he’d get you settled, something about ‘a young master needing space where they can truly relax, something that belongs to them,’ but you weren’t quite familiar with such a concept.

It had been a week in the manor, and you couldn’t figure out why something about Mr. Wayne was off. His neural buzz felt familiar; you had a slight buzz that lingered around people, like their very own aura. It wasn’t identifiable, merely a vacant echo of a presence. It carried a sentiment you could never quite quiet down.

It felt familiar, like one you had sensed before. But certainty wasn’t your strong suit, so all you could do was zip your lips, palms pressed into your sides as you contemplated the unease of existing in a place that was not quite familiar, nor truly your own.

“There we go, this should do quite well for you, Young Master.” He sighs in content, back straightening as he beams at you in silent gratification. 

The room wasn’t the biggest, but you were accustomed to much smaller. The gratitude you felt oozed out of your body like a reverent prayer. Your eyes meet his in a way that makes Alfred want to give your shoulder a comforting squeeze; he settles for a warm smile instead. 

“Thank you... ” Your voice is quiet, but steady, your fingers fiddling with the frayed hem of your sweatshirt. Unsure of what kind of words you were supposed to use in this situation.

It had only been a week here, but it was a stark contrast from the emotionally devoid compound you were raised in. 

At least, that’s what you told yourself.

You were supposed to meet Mr. Wayne’s other wards, a sort of family they had you were never really permitted to. You didn’t know how to feel; your chest tightened with every thought of what might go wrong, how they might see you, how they might see the real you.

The terrified child who carried no worth beyond being a vessel for pain.

Despite your age, you felt smaller than you were. Your voice cracking whenever someone tried to speak to you, a tremor in your hands at the sight of any authority figure. But this was normal. You knew it was because it was almost your entire life. It was all you had known.

So you swallowed the lump in your throat, ran your hands through your hair and let out a shaky breath. 

You lingered by the staircase longer than anyone really should, hiding inside the shadows that provided little comfort from the warm lights of the dining hall. Your irises were locked onto the figures in front of you. 

There was, of course, Mr. Wayne, but there were about two other figures that you could make out. One had a smaller frame and spiked up black hair; from what you could tell, the other had hair parted down the center, and his frame was only slightly larger than the former's.

Your head tilted inquisitively as you watched them interact with each other.

“You drank the last of the coffee. Again,” The younger one’s voice is sharp and accusatory. He narrows his eyes at the older one sitting at the counter, lazily taking a sip from his mug.

The older-looking one stares deadpan as he takes his sip.

“You never fail to frustrate me, Drake.” The younger one tuts and rolls his eyes.

“You don’t need this much coffee at your age, kid.” The one labelled Drake quips back.

“We are not that far in age.” His voice is lighter, but still steady. Your chest tightens, the scene in front of you seems to have an edge to it, but there’s a familiarity between them. You feel like an intruder. Your digits scratch at your exposed clavicle as you debate revealing yourself from the shadows. 

You end up attempting to retreat into your room, although you nearly get lost; the hallways stretch on for days, and despite the gothic lighting, it’s never bright enough to dissipate the tenebrous aura this mansion has.

Your auricles thrum under the new environment, as your feet come to a halt. You take a look at one of the ornate frames lining the hallway, eyes catching onto the photo enclosed. It’s unmistakable, Mr. Wayne's family—your breath stilled as you take in the sight. 

You recognize the billionaire, of course, and the two boys you’d just overheard. But there are two more of them there—one with half-contained frustration glaring into the camera and another with a smile so bright it nearly blinds you.

That’s the kind of smile you can’t imagine wearing; your mandible tightens as your hands cradle your jaw. You’re in true awe of the photo; you find yourself staring at it for longer than you’d care to admit.

It feels so human, so utterly human. Unlike this mansion, which feels unoccupied and colder than you thought it’d be.

Someone begins to approach the hallway. You can hear their distant footsteps, but you cannot seem to peel your eyes away from the photo. Stuck in a daze of thoughts and half-filled dreams.

The footsteps are heavy—someone with more weight to them, you think. You can thank your childhood spent stuck in a compound of doctors and nurses for that. You had to mentally prepare yourself to be in the presence of anyone. 

You hear a male voice let out a small groan, and your eyes find their way to the figure approaching. He doesn’t notice you at first—partially because you’re still kinda far away and partially because he seems caught up in his thoughts.

He’s the frustrated one from the photo—you wonder if you should introduce yourself to him. 

You gulp down the lump in your throat as he gets closer. Eventually, he does take notice of you, his teal eyes look you over like a threat.

It takes everything in your body not to flicker the lights; tension runs through you like liquid fire, igniting every bone inside.

He pauses, his expression morphing from something soldier-like to something more unreadable, more human.

Your mouth parts, something tries to make its way out of your throat, words that could maybe tether you to this place.

“Hi.” Your voice is small, aching to say more, anything that would ease the strain weighing your bones down. But you falter, he looks you over and speaks, voice gruff.

“Who are you?” His eyes narrow slightly—just enough to be off-putting, but not enough to make you want to bolt.

Just as he speaks, someone rounds the corner of the eerie hallway, steps weighing heavily, shattering the tension in the room.

“They’ll be staying here from now on, Jason. We decided it’d be best.” Bruce’s voice rings in the halls, and you aren’t sure if you’re supposed to feel relaxed now. You pick at your fingers, wondering if it was worth it to try and speak more.

Bruce walks down to meet you two at the spot in front of the framed pictures. His face is worn, but there’s still a mask you see him adorn, something plastered over that tired face.

He places his hand on your shoulder gently, and the man named Jason grumbles before giving a nod of understanding. 

“Good luck on your search, B.” He speaks before walking away, hand shoved into his pockets. You observe him as he retreats into the dark halls of the mansion. 

Bruce ushers you forward, and you allow him as you shrink in on yourself. You couldn’t stop thinking about the exchange between those two boys from before. Something in you wanted to meet them, feel it out, if they could be your friends. The other part of you was terrified, like the very thought of trying to do something so bold made you sick.

Eventually, there is an introduction. You’re in the only clothes you own, a black sweatshirt and some cargo shorts. They had offered you an alternative, but you felt safer like this. The real you on display, whatever that looked like. 

You’re led into a living room. The boys from the framed picture are all there, scattered in positions most comfortable for each. 

Bruce is sitting at his desk, half-focused on something else, eyes flickering between you and the document he holds.

Alfred clears his throat gently, stepping in.

You quickly introduce your name. Then Alfred takes over again.

“Everyone, please welcome them to the manor.” He speaks in a light and practiced tone.

He gestures with his gloved hands as he continues.

“This is Master Damian, the youngest,” he nods to the boy standing by the fireplace, and you recognize him instantly, stiff posture and all.

“And this is Master Tim.” Alfred continues gesturing to one of the couches beside him, Tim’s eyes darting between a phone and you.

“Master Dick, the eldest.” He nods to the one lounging on the far end of the couch, giving you a lazy, easy smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“And lastly, Master Jason.” Alfred finishes, motioning towards the wall. The tallest leans on it, arms folded, and gaze steady as he looks you over.

You nod stiffly, the back of your neck prickling. Feeling the weight of being categorized. Appraised and quietly filed away.

Mr. Wayne looks up from his files and rests his chin on his palm. 

“I want you to know that while I may be busy most of the time, you can always reach me in my office, or contact Alfred if you need anything else.” His tone is almost warm, and a strange feeling settles in the pit of your stomach. Something that doesn’t quite fit.

You shyly nod as your eyes drift across the room, looking over all the boys.

Dick is the first to speak, and you breathe a sigh of relief—grateful someone broke the tension before you

“It’s nice to see a new face around here,” he says, offering a sheepish smile. “Hopefully, you’re in better shape than the rest of us.” 

You nod your head in acknowledgement, offering him a smile of your own; you’re only half sure it’s genuine.

Dick stands up and crosses the room, placing a grounding hand on your shoulder.

“It takes time,” he says, voice light, but kind, “But we’re basically like a family here.” You look up at him, something sparking in your chest like a frayed wire. The word family tucks itself there—deep and warm, closest to your heart.

You hear a light scoff come from where Damian stands. He goes still when you make eye contact with him, his own eyes narrowing ever so slightly. His gaze sharpens, cold and callous. You offer a small, uneasy smile like a fragile truce, hoping for something softer than a glare.

You’re unsure if he accepts it, he casts you one last look over before exiting the room like a shadow. 

Your eyes trail over to where Tim sits on the couch, legs curled underneath himself. You hesitate before lowering yourself down next to him on the plush pillows. He doesn’t startle—just licks his lips slowly as he eyes his phone screen. When he feels the couch shift, his gaze rises, brows raising, as if mildly surprised you’re real.

“What’cha up to?” You inquire as you peer sideways at his screen. Your lips press together, partially guarded.

“Just looking for some info for a school project.” He replies flatly, and you flinch, barely, but enough. It’s a tone you’re accustomed to, so you press.

“How’s school like?” You ask, keeping your voice gentle, as you tilt your head. 

Tim shrugs without looking up. “Same as always, I don’t find it hard, luckily.” He pauses in thought as he finally meets your gaze 

He hasn’t caught on to the meaning of your question. You had never been to school.  

You were raised under humming lights and the smell of rubbing alcohol; knowledge came in many forms. Dr. Sun believed in education—drilled it into your head like gospel. But there were no lockers, bright hallways or laughter in disrupted classrooms. More of an echoed silence and a sterile desk. 

“Will I get to go to school?” Your digits absentmindedly trace patterns on the couch as your gaze drops.  

Something clicks in Tim’s head, like a puzzle piece. 

“I’m pretty sure everyone in this house usually does,” He answers eventually. He lets out a small breath of air before sharing a knowing look with Alfred, a silent prompt passed between the two. 

“Of course, young master.” Alfred pipes up. 

You look up and feel your heart stutter at his reply. Something close to hope swirls around your insides. Bruce’s ear twitches as he hears the exchange and looks up for a moment, eyeing the scene. His eyes flicker back down at a buzz from his phone, and he sinks back into his work with a sigh. 

“You look like you’ll figure it out.” Jason throws the words over his shoulder to you as he makes his way out. You look up, startled, and unable to respond as he’s already gone. 

This was, perhaps, the most eventful birthday you’d ever experienced in your fifteen years of life.

You eventually make your way back into your room with some help from Alfred, and when you lie in the soft sheets that night, your heart pounds against your sternum. Silence so loud, it leaves your ears ringing. 

The introduction went well—at least that's what you thought. You replayed it in your head like a broken record, wondering about what each of them thought of you. Your hands run over the skin of your arms in a desperate attempt for comfort. 

But something was twisting your insides, unfurling in the pits of your stomach. Hope alone wasn’t nearly enough to withstand something this cumbersome.

The heaviness in your chest, the toiling in your head, a message that felt like it was from the angels themselves. As if heaven itself had chosen to condemn you for existing at all.

This wasn’t right.

It couldn’t be right.

You weren’t created to feel this way; you can hardly imagine you’d ever belong in a house like this. Stitching yourself into something already half-woven, already fraying at the edges. 

Even when you spoke in front of them, the words felt wrong. Barely practiced, something born of fiction, not reality. 

Never reality.

And if someone were to show you an ounce of something— anything—that resembled hope, it would slip through the cracks of your fingers, like sand through an hourglass. That was always how kindness was given to you. 

You lie there helplessly, clinging to the sheets in a manor you’ve never truly belonged in. Under the watch of a man you never really knew.

How different was this from your life before?

At least there you made people…happy.

An injection straight into your already overworked blue veins, a rush of adrenaline racing beneath your skin, mingling with the sharp sting of bile oozing out of your mouth. 

But then someone would look at you.

There would be a glint in their eyes, an excitement, like they’d unwrapped an unexpected present.

Dr. Sun.

When he smiled, you could breathe. For a moment, the pain became worth it.

Your hurt was the key to success—the key to happiness.

How could you ever live in a world beyond that?

What even existed beyond that?